


Through His Paces

by uragani



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Kidnapped Tony Stark, Kidnapping, POV Tony Stark, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Still Has Arc Reactor, Tony Stark-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:56:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22083664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uragani/pseuds/uragani
Summary: Tony uses HIVER, an advanced nanotechnological training room designed to let any scenario play out as realistically as possible controlled by Friday herself. He's asked Friday to put him through his paces, make him feel something. Something real. Something extreme, to make the world feel more real.She's a little too quick to give him exactly what he asked for.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Through His Paces

**Author's Note:**

> This is a solo RP scene turned fic after a clean up, added some extra details to pump it up for general consumption. Warning, Tony is a mix of comic and MCU Tony Stark in this story, as I write him for my roleplays. Yep. That's how nerdy this is. So, it's littered with headcanons and plot developments you've never seen in this order. But it came out decent as a story, so you get to read it too.

Tony Stark was down in the training room, locked into a little world all his own, where nanites and AIs were king and Friday could create any world he wanted to train in.

A while back, he'd created a system for his Avengers, a training room developed so they could face real threats, in real scenarios without ever leaving the compound in upstate New York. He called it the Heuristic Idiomatic Variable Ectype Room, or HIVER for short. Some folks called it the training room, some called it the Danger Room. Tony... Tony considered it a real problem, because when you got down to brass tacks, the room was a fantasy machine. You could make any scenario real, you could replay moments from your life over and over again, with little tweaks, with little changes. It was definitely a step up from BARF and he could see both the value of it... and how badly it could destroy someone. Someone who might obsess over replaying events until they got every detail perfect so they could...

Well so they could what, prove to themselves they fucked up? That they did have a chance to fix things and they just couldn't do it? Yeah, that sounded like something he should have access to. But, he did, and he was down there, to play HIVER. To get better. To catch up to the superhumans that littered the team while he was at best just a human with a couple good ideas and some common sense stuck in a bright little tin can. Extremis had been a good start, rebuilding his entire body from scratch in a cocoon like some kinda butterfly to enhance his body, to modify his patching into the systems so they were organic and fluid. Thought transfer, balanced and controlled by Friday herself, searching everything he did for missed clues. Help extending himself into his systems to the point that he had man-made cyberpathy. As close to a mutant as someone could get without forcing an actual mutation. As close to his team mates as he could get. Funny, how you had to change yourself so much to fit in with a group even as filled with misfits as the Avengers was.

Here's the funny thing though, that meant he interacted with HIVER entirely different than anyone else in the compound. Instead of him being completely out of control, Friday's using Extremis to jack into his systems. She's skimming his brain (mostly the instinctual, unthought parts) and supplying him responses in a way that's fluidly expanding everything around him into a real, satisfactory world. It's got verisimilitude, because it's just out of his control enough to surprise him, but because she knows what he's thinking he's just enough in control to get what he needs in a satisfying way. To feel like he's getting something cathartic. Unfortunately, that means it's got all the warning flags for Tony putting himself up against odds he can't fight. He did that a lot, maybe it was some kinda self-hatred, or the way he always tried to martyr himself. In-situ, for example, his reflexive nanite armor has been completely disabled, and he's in the middle of yet another kidnapping experience. It's what he knows, intimately, so it's where Friday goes. He's giving them hell though, because they didn't catch him by surprise for once. He's living out his dream kidnapping. Only Tony Stark would have a dream kidnapping scenario...

"Friday you sure are playing this to the hilt," Tony mumbles, pushing himself upright on the metal floor. A concussion, or at least a simulated one it feels like. He's pretty sure Friday drugged him instead of actually fucking with his brain (god knows he doesn't need more of that) but there is a real cut on his eyebrow dribbling blood into his eye and that stings like hell. Alkaline, blood is alkaline and it pits and rusts metal. Good to remember if you're ever trapped behind bars for a long time. Just keep bleeding and eventually... Yeah not a good plan Tony. Let's focus. He knows he nailed one of the kidnappers, maybe two. He's trying to figure out what they want him for though. That's always important, because it dictates how safe he is. Let's play spin the wheel of kidnapping.

Money, fame, IT help, bait, murder, or banging. Those were his usual uses to an enemy, and he'd never come across one that wouldn't use him for one of the above. Friday was eerily good at blocking all input from the cyberpathy, if he didn't know where he was right now, he'd assume that he really was disconnected from the house, that his armor was really broken. Friday was cock-blocking him making anything, the nanites in his bones were silent, watching, refusing to budge. The mode of stopping them had been... questionably scientific though, so he knew damn well this was Friday and that put him on edge. 

It's fine. Say 'Perfidy' and you're out of there. You have a safe word, Stark, don't be a little bitch. Alright so, step one. Tony glanced around the room looking for something to get these fucking bindings off his wrists. They felt like reinforced zip ties, so if he could just find something to hook onto them he could twist and pop them off. Yes, maybe damaging his wrists in the process, but his shoulders were under hella stress as it was. Man, his brain felt fuzzy and empty. These drugs were realistic as hell. He was gonna have to ask what the hell she was using on him later. 

The loud bang from the other room interrupted Tony's work, and on instinct he flipped himself back to the floor to lay still. Pretend like you're out of it, catch them off guard. That's always good. He could smell gasoline, the room was too fucking dark to see much, so what. A garage? Somewhere close to vehicles. Well, that meant firepower anyways that he could use later on. Where there's gas, there's something to explode. The handle jiggled, unlocking, and someone stepped into the room. Fuck. Bright lights. Tony's eyes stayed closed as he watched through the veil of red. A shadow passed over his face. Tony waited. When you feel heat, like blood and breath, that's when you head butt. They never really got close enough. Tony fought not to flex his wrists or change the frankly uncomfortable way he was laying. Play dead. Limp. Barely breathing. The man standing in front of him clucked something in Russian and Tony fought ever nerve in his body not to go taut. Friday you had better not have. You little...

Now that it was in his head, the steps sounded like jackboots. Now that it was in his head, he chanced a peek as the man was leaving the room through a curtain of lashes. Military uniform. Son of a bitch. Okay, so, not money. HYDRA's well funded. Not fame, secret organizations don't play in that kinda currency. So that left him with IT help, bait, or murder. Good news, the rare off-fields 'banging' level was not usually a HYDRA thing, so he could neatly avoid that by the hair of his chinny chin chin. Thank god, if anyone caught him using HIVER as a risque sexy scenario maker he'd never hear the end of it. Even if it wasn't technically what he asked Friday for.

More Russian, Tony was so lucky he didn't need to pass it through an online translator through his systems or he'd be screwed over right now. Can't exactly Google without an internet connection. 

<"He's still out. Prepare the transport."> Oh good, a second location. Never let them take you to a second location. So, couldn't be plain murder, gotta be bait or weapons building. This was fun. Maybe they'd sell him to another crew. Aw, wait, it's the holidays. Maybe he's being hauled to Zemo or something as a sweet little HYDRA gift. 'Here boss, he brought you an enemy to murder.' You know he'd be scared if this wasn't so... normal. Wasn't something he went through over and over since he was like, four. Be a genius child with your face in a newspaper with an influential and rich father and see how long before someone nabs you off the street.

He could feel Friday silently hovering at the base of his skull, warm silent weight. She was trying to be nothing to him, to be cut off, but he could feel the thrum of her... thereness. He'd wanna check that out later, outside HIVER. Some of these little things he was encountering as he went brought up questions in real life. Like why, why could he feel her waiting there on the edge of his thoughts when she didn't want that? When he didn't either, realism was more fun. It hinted maybe the connection between the two was getting a little thicker than he intended.

Tony timed a groan to show himself 'barely' waking up as the guards marched into the room to grab him under the arms and heft his body off the floor. They dragged his shoes. Tony was going to kill them for that, those were new shoes. Yes, he'd repair the scuffs later, but Clint just gave him those and now he was going to have blood on his hands. AI blood, not really sentient... It struck him that he really couldn't fall into this simulation properly could he? Always of two minds, one here dissecting the way they moved, head hanging forward limply to cover him looking at their belts and figuring out if there was anything he could use there. One sitting there and watching, making sure he knew it was fake. It's fake, Tony. You can't die here, Friday won't let you. There's... no weight to the scenario.

Alright then. Tony caught his foot on the door purposefully. Toe pushing him off balance, making his guards turn back to get him off the hook. They tugged harder. Ow, fucking, shoulder stress. Okay, let's see them try to turn him a little to unhook him, annnnd— Tony's hands came level with the guard across the way, he unbuttoned the belt bags and snagged whatever was in it. Felt long and narrow, so he just slipped it into his own back pocket before they righted him and he began to struggle a little. C'mon guys, I'm waking up properly, hurry your asses up. Once I'm in the cage you can let go. You don't wanna hit me in the head again, you need the head. It's my best feature, unless that's not what you're after—

He heard a crackle and hissed when he got prodded in the side, body tightening up, spine arching. He teeth clenched, the searing pain overloaded him for a second. 

Okay, cattle prod. Cattle prods work. Don't need a head strike when you can pump someone full of juice and leave them seizing in your grip.

What do you fucking do when you're cattle prodded while half conscious? Do you wake up fully? Does it knock you under again? Is it just a confusion tactic to keep you from squirming and wiggling so much? On one hand Tony should find that out for next time, on the other? He didn't want to be that experiment. Did he? Could he? Huh. Lotta questions, everything brought up questions as he was thrown in the back of the transport, and the doors sealed behind him. His hair'd gotten longish. He needed to slick it back again these days and he hadn't had that for a while. Not since he was actually 30, instead of just looking like it from nanite rebuilds, and had time for the kind of hair people could run their fingers through and make a mess. Now, it was sweaty, and it stuck in the blood plastered across his forehead so his fringe just obscured his vision a little. He sat up, swinging his weight up so he could get at his pocket and figure out what he lifted without looking at it.

Long, ball at the end, pretty firm. Maybe metal? There seemed to be a seam and... Tony paused, and then tucked his head back in a stupid grin. Ah. Friday gave him an out on that guy's belt. He grabbed his other wrist so he could move them in unison smoother, tipped his body to the side for space, and SHOOK the device sharply. It was a pleasure to hear the telescoping clicking. Baton. These guys had a choice between battening him unconscious and cattle prodding him and they went for the prod. That implies... they don't want to damage the merch. Not bait then, bait looks better broken and bleeding and an absolute wreck. The more they could fuck him up, nose broken, eyes bruised to shit, the more pitiful he'd look. The easier to get an Avenger to come save him, when they see how badly they'd fucked him up. So. IT tech, murder. Someone wanted a weapon, or to fix a weapon, or to fix...

"Friday, you had better not be taking me where I think you might," he croaked aloud.

Okay, time to get his hands in front of him. He was not as stretchy and young anymore, this wasn't gonna be fun. He breathed out, closed his eyes, focused on his yoga techniques. Lay back, use your shoulders on the ground for leverage. Pull your hands apart as much as possible to fit that ass. Crook your elbows so there's room for your hips. Pull on your wrists and shoulders so hard they feel like they're gonna dislocate. Then walk them along your butt. Curve your spine, buy an inch. Fat and skin locks you in place so you can inch forwards. Tony's head aches from holding his breath by the time his hands are behind his knees and safely around.

He sits up and takes a second to breathe, rubbing his wrists together to get the ache out. Okay easier part, face to your knees. Step on your wrists. Ignore your fucking shoulder going out. God that burns and hurts. Walk it. The faster you get it done, the better your shoulder will feel. C'mon. C'mon... His toes barely cleared his wrist and he sighs in relief as he dropped his knee down and around his elbow. There, plenty of room to just tip his other leg and pull it out now. Hands in front. Great. Good. Now slip the baton into the space with the wrists, tight fit, but you can do it. Spin it, hold it with your mouth, reach around again, and pull. Do it again. Then use your foot to SHOVE it down and, oh fuck him, it cuts into his wrists and he throws his head back and... the things snap under the pressure. Not his wrist, the zip ties. 

"Fuck zip ties," he says to nothing and rubs his wrists, reaching back to rub his shoulder. He needed to work on his flexibility. It'd been so long since he had to slip cuffs that actually hurt, and he wasn't gonna let that happen for realio trulio if this happened for real again. Okay, progress report. Currently free of all limitations, being taken to a second facility. Transport is the easiest time to escape. Currently in possession of one extending baton with lots of heft and the leftover zip ties remnants. Reinforced zip ties. With small bits of wire through them. High tech transport. Oh yeah, this was gonna be fine. He just had to get into a circuit board and then set a trap.

Okay but what did they say? Curiosity killed the cat? He wanted to know what this plot was supposed to be. He wanted to know what the plans were, why they wanted him. Could he fight his way out of an entire HYDRA facility? The easy out was laying in front of him. Hot wire one of the doors to open, wait for them to pull over, and then pull all those techniques Rogers taught him in a fight. Lure them into a confined space, don't present a target, use a meat shield, all that good shit. Maybe explode the fucking circuit once it's open, and use the explosion as cover. But why did they want him, what were they building? Would this set-up tell him something new for him to be prepared for, and he could plan against, without it ever happening?

Friday set up the mystery element of this to fuck him over via his human weaknesses, and he knows it. He licks the edge of his teeth, and reaches up with a wrist to wipe the dried blood off his eyelid and brow. It itches like hell god damn it. Okay, fuck it. He was gonna wait for the transport to stop before blowing out the doors. Give him a minute. It's hard to get a panel open, no where to grip. That is, unless you bash them with the baton.

His voice raised, loud, yelling to cover the noise he was about to make, "HEY! WHAT DO YOU GUYS WANT FROM ME?" He slammed the baton down several times, until he saw the panel moving and then focused his attentions here. "I'M GONNA KICK AND SCREAM UNTIL YOU STOP AND LET ME OUT." There, they think he's kicking. They didn't tie his legs, so fuck yeah, good cover for the noise. When a corner came up high enough in went the baton's handle, letting him pry open the circuits. He moved to settle in, occasionally kicking the wall and making a fuss, but it slowly 'died down' as if he tired himself out. He could hear muffled Russian and laughter from the front seat. He caught an insult, and flipped off the cockpit idly as he went through where things went... let's just see here. His fingers went to work, slowly pulling the bare wires out of the zip ties while he made a mental map.

It was a matter of poking things and seeing what power went where. Which meant causing temporary little flickers... and getting electrocuted in the process. Just a car battery. He'd been electrocuted by car batteries for years. Both in the torture sense, and the 'I work on cars and I can be very stupid' sense. So yes, he does grunt whenever his fingers hit the right section to give him a taste of pain, but he simply cracks his neck to get the shiver out of his spine that feels like ants marching, and keeps up the good work. Zip zap zippity fuck you, basically. By the time the transport slows to a stop, Tony knows half of what the electronics do and is happy to unlock the back door...

Before throwing a handful of bare wires haphazardly into the bared panel boards with all their delicate circuits, and slamming it closed because hoo boy. The half he does know is nothing compared to the half that's gonna go fucking wild when it shorts out from a bunch of metal crossing all the power lines. He's pretty sure he managed to get something fun when the engine starts screaming, and he scurries for the back, baton out, and kicks open the unlocked door. 

"Hey guys!" He announces to the room full of armored up military HYDRA troops who were prepared to pick him up and move him. Aw, they cared. He threw a gesture over his shoulder, pointing with a thumb, "That's gonna explode. I'm leaving." Then he's just bolting. Just full out bolting into the troops who are confused, and alarmed, and this was not going according to plan. He hits one guy smart enough to respond quickly, and he spins with him, putting the body armor between him and the transport currently whining and... backing... up.

"Seriously, why did you put me in a transport that's like 90% digitized anyways this just seems stupid..." He manages to say to the guy's face before the car rams him in the back and Tony flattens himself to the floor to let both drive overhead. His poor meat shield is stuck to the undercarriage for a second, before he pops free as his head bounces off the underside of the transport. Tony tucks in small against the man on top of him groaning, and waits for the sounds of yelling and alarms going off as the transport backs into a second in the garage. Where it sticks, and starts spitting sparks. Good transport, scare all the nasty HYDRA, you're doing so well. Oh, while he's here, yes, he's groping blindly for more weapons on the man above him. He's entirely too pleased with finding a brand new matching cattle prod to the asshole who got him last time, and oh. What's this? A gun?

Okay now we're in business. He wrestles with the man on top of him, drowsy from bouncing off the back bumper of a van apparently, until such point he just gives up with trying to fight the nice way.

It's not very heroic of him, but he puts the gun under the guy's chin and fires.

It's messy. It's disgusting really. Tony rolls free, covered in splatter and shards, and scrambles for the least guarded looking entrance. Gotta go boys. He skids through the doorway just about the time the sparks, the overheating, the yelling, and the crash all come together into a glorious fireball explosion. That'll keep 'em busy. Time to check out their location, see if they have anymore fun toys.

This door being open implies it's the direction they were gonna take him before he uh, well... killed... a number of HYDRA agents. He realizes he skidded so nicely because of the blood on his shoes and picks a bit of... nope. Not gonna think about it. Too close shots aren't funny. Or cute. And hey that's gonna be a nightmare stalking his PTSD in the dark later but he doesn't care. Hah, you know what? He doesn't care. These are AI. (Please, be AI. Even now, even knowing, Tony has these momentary lapses where he thinks this might be real. That he tricked himself. That this is actually a SHIELD agency trying to protect him, that's why they aren't hurting him, and the drugs are to keep him quiet. Quiet and docile while they get him help because his armor hacked him, and Friday has been puppeting him for Ultron or—) He peeks into the main room and it's fucking Russia.

Like, it's Zemo's lab full of soldiers. In it's prime. The place his Cap put a shield into his heart, not realizing he still had his arc reactor in, and left him for dead in. That's great for his emotional state, reliving that sputtering cracked arc reactor barely keeping him alive super quick. But the tanks are lit up this time, and the super soldiers aren't long gone little dark cheerios of death on their foreheads in half emptied vats. It hits him harder than he realized it would to see it alive and realize that they wanted him to work with something related to them. Maybe even force him to continue his Dad's work. To make monsters in a place that would never leave his nightmares. Friday must've been listening when he said don't you dare, must've taken a worst case scenario out of his head. Because hey, you can't be traumatized if you've already seen the worst. You'll be apathetic. This is training, Stark. You suffer here, so you don't have to suffer out there where the danger and damage is real.

Dad made these. Depending on what year it is though... Tony's teeth snap closed and he counts the super soldiers again. One vat, two vat, three four five, sixth vat, seventh vat, great surprise. Seven. Seventh vat is empty, and he knows who should go there. Empty, shit, FUCK. Tony's backing against the windows, filling with snow just like last time, so quickly it's got him sliding on the cement again. There's a little hiccup in his throat, too tight, like stomach acid is eating away at it from stress. He hears something move. Oh fuck him, it was too easy for a reason. This was the main event. 

He can hear the whirs of something mechanical in the shadows, slow and pacing, and he has no armor to speak of. A gun's not gonna do much. Baton even less. Cattle prod might give him pause in the right spot. Stop panicking Tony, don't freeze up.

It's just Bucky.

Tony has never fought Bucky properly. Not alone, not hand to hand with no weapons. He managed a few seconds in the airport against the Winter Soldier with dead eyes, with his armored gauntlet to hold back that dangerous arm. He fought him with Cap coming down on him simultaneously too, yeah. But Friday, armor, and rage make for a delicious cocktail of power in a fight. Especially when the suit moves itself, knowing where to stop the oncoming attacks from live recorded battles, simply informing her of their every attack type in advance. He feels cold, and it's not the snow outside. He looks up at the sleeping super soldiers, and his eyes dull with realization. Even if he had a chance, Bucky's failure would mean HYDRA could simply let the rest of them out.

If he can't stop one, he can't stop six. 

Tony's tempted to snap out the safe word and just leave. This is too much. He told Friday to put him through his paces but this is... this is so beyond him. This is shoving him bodily off a cliff and whispering fly with no armor to sing to his rescue. He can feel the eyes on him, his hair on his arms raising. It's amazing how much reality Friday can put into a situation. Or maybe, maybe his brain is just making his reaction stronger because it wanted to believe in it. He deserved this. 

Or maybe Friday was triggering parts of his brain from the inside and saving power by leaving him a vegetable absolutely sure he's doing anything at all. If you work directly on the nerves and neurons and memories, they feel more real than anything. Maybe he's getting the brainwashing of his life...

Stop trying to problem solve things that aren't real, Stark. Stop avoiding the fight. 

When Bucky steps out of the shadows, Tony looks at him. Just looks, and he realizes he doesn't want to fight. Not again. Not here. Not him. Bucky seems unsure, when he doesn't raise the gun that those dark raccoon painted eyes glance down to. When Tony grits his teeth a little and does nothing, just ducks his head like he's ready to take it, whatever in Bucky is still there in this scenario is confused, then it moves past his eyes like a shadow behind a foggy window. So what if the target has given up, it's still the target, it's just easier, right? 

Tony thinks it might be pretty cathartic to let the soldier beat him to shit and back. He could pay back a little bit of what he did with a pound of flesh the real one doesn't need to have on his conscience. The fact that it's so tempting to let someone beat him, knowing it'll actually leave a mark, that he believes he deserves it? Actually hurts his heart. C'mon soldier, come wreck this sinner. Tony lets Bucky come for him, knife flashing as he approaches. Tony tips his chin back as a hand is against his throat in half a second. He's up, off the ground, against a wall. Again.

Seriously was his throat that attractive, everyone went for it like every time?

Tony was moving fluidly with the expected attack, not thrown off by his head slamming into the cement because all he had to do was a single swing of his arm. Simply jamming the cattle prod into the joint of Bucky's armpit, the metal raised and open, full of barely shielded wires and the connections that went straight to his brain. I mean, going for his neck every time made plans easier. Everyone went for the fucking neck, so you could tell where they were going next. 

Sorry Bucky. If I let you kill me while you're not in your own head, even as a simulation, then you'll just have another victim you don't remember killing.

The arm didn't fry from the electricity overload, exactly, it just glitched. It tightened, a terrifying moment, and then loosened. The soldier pulled back in surprise and upset. Tony moved quickly, not pausing to rub his throat or cough. He just raised the gun to Bucky's head, no working metal hand to stop the bullets now, and as his finger squeezed the sound of a shot and his voice raised together...

"Perfidy."

It was over before the bullet struck. The lighting went white, his mental systems clicked back on, his armor shifted awake like a beast in his belly, and everything around him dissolved into a stark white room, "Too far, Friday." 

"Sorry, Boss. You did ask me to max your emotional reactions out."

"I know, I know... I'm sorry. It's fine. It's... it's fine. Don't pull him again as the villain for a while. Just don't. Not like that, not there." He wasn't holding a gun, his empty hand could drop. He wasn't standing in a Russian room halfway across the world, shivering from phantom cold. He wasn't facing Bucky, or covered in blood and gore from another kill. His brain helpfully pointed out he'd had 8 targets. So, nine bullets, that woulda left one behind. What kind of a fucking test had Friday set up? Did she want to know what he'd do in a room alone with a dead man he'd fought not to hurt, after executing people in their sleep? That was worrying, that was... dark. Maybe she was scared, maybe she wanted to see if he hit his limit before he did something else, something real. 

He meandered up the stairs, carefully and just stopped before leaving the room entirely. Out here was Steve's old punching bag room, regular training equipment. Solid, normal, muscles and stamina, not emotional training. He found a padded bench and sat for a minute. Just a simulation. He had to take time to let himself out of the space he found himself in. Just a minute. Only a minute. 60 seconds to be normal and pretend none of this had ever happened. 

His hands were shaking. 

He shoved them in his pockets to go back upstairs. Merry Christmas to himself, his present was just a little more trauma in the luggage he dragged around with him always. He just hoped next time he saw Bucky, he wouldn't recognize the guilt in his eyes.


End file.
